The Final (...) Blog

That’s it! We’ve done it! 1000 (and a bit) miles as promised, and delivered almost bang on time. Needless to say, we’re totally astonished. We finished at 7:30pm, Tuesday 31st August, taking our walking time to 65 days in all. It was an odd experience; John o’Groats is just about one of the bleakest places on Earth, possibly second only to Land’s End, but it was reassuring to have my Mum and aunt there to scream as embarrassingly as possible as we reached the famous (and, shockingly, privately owned) finish post. The much photographed Groat’s Hotel makes for a deflating, dreary backdrop to the already sparsely populated village, surrounded by builder’s fencing and in desperate need of a makeover that it clearly will never receive. However, the sun was shining and it was smiles all round!

This final blog has taken me completely by surprise. I thought it would be by far the easiest excerpt to write - that I would be gushing with joy at having completed what has turned out to be the most difficult challenge I’ve ever undertaken, and full of enthusiasm for perhaps some of the more mundane aspects to being home. But I’ve been putting off writing how it all feels, because I don’t quite know. Foremost, there is an overwhelming sensation of satisfaction. Relief comes second, very closely followed by exhaustion, and assorted tail-enders such as pain and happiness are scrabbling around somewhere too. More surprisingly, though, as our train undoes all our hard work, taking us back South through the Highlands towards Inverness, there’s a very heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach telling me that I’m going to miss this, quite desperately. The freedom and vigour of being outside for 12 hours a day, the self-sufficiency, the changing landscapes and, most of all, the people whose kindness has consistently taken us aback have all made the last 10 weeks far more bearable. I might not miss the heavy pack rubbing my shoulders, or the tramping 20 miles through sheeting rain, but I don’t know this experience without those aspects, and so perhaps I’d leave them in to ensure I preserve the whole experience as perfectly as possible.

Linda Walker - head of the Chernobyl Children’s Project - and her husband, came to see us last night in John O’Groats, and I think it is imperative that I mention that the reasons we undertook such a difficult challenge still stand, and now seem more poignant than ever. The charity’s continuing hard work makes a huge difference to the lives of many Belarusian children who are suffering quite terribly, and almost silently, from the effects of the nuclear disaster of 1986. It’s a constant surprise to me when I come across children and young adults who have little or no knowledge of the event, and even less so of how much it is still jeopardising so many young people’s futures.

It’s now November, nearly 3 months since we finished. Although the money is still being donated, our current total stands at £3,049 - a full £49 over our intended goal. Admittedly, for a while, we thought that this might be where our journey ends. However (as I was warned repeatedly), this type of thing is totally addictive. The need for money and awareness has far from being solved, and so I am currently in the process of planning next summer’s challenge.

Please do keep in touch, and watch this space over the next month, or so, for news of the next event! And thank you, everyone, for everything you’ve done.

x

On The North Coast of Scotland

I can't quite believe it, I really can't. We’ve walked from the South Coast of England to the North Coast of Scotland. We're both still alive, still talking, still able to function and, most importantly, still walking. With only 60 miles left to John O'Groats, I’m beginning to wonder what changes I might have to make in order to readjust to normal living.


The obvious change will be no longer spending 12 hours a day outside, exposed to the elements and walking nearly a marathon every day, and I genuinely think that I’m going to miss both. There’s a real joy in feeling like you’ve achieved something every single day, and more so in knowing that it’s part of a much bigger achievement. It might be quite a difficult habit to break, too, as will taking an extraordinary interest in weather reports, and pretending to know what certain clouds and colours in the sky mean. I certainly would anticipate quite a bad reaction from anyone who discovered I'd dug a hole in their living room carpet, used it as a loo, and then popped a plant pot over the top of it, and if I were to turn up to restaurant smelling like I do today, I think I might find myself alone pretty quickly.

Someone yesterday asked if were lovers of the ‘great outdoors’, which made me examine my experience of it over the last 9 weeks. Part of me thinks that we haven’t experienced it a great deal, as ludicrous as that sounds, tramping along with our heads down, mp3 players turned up, and trying desperately to keep putting one foot in front of the other in order to meet our targets. Compared to Ray Mears, 2 months walking with a fridge strapped to my back and a windproof jacket from a charity shop doesn’t really constitute to an ‘outdoors experience’ - we’ve not once had to drink sap from a tree for sustenance, or catch and skin a wild boar. Of course, we have experienced nature in most of it’s extremes, but only as far as England and Scotland’s worst - and in July and August at that. Perhaps I’m being to harsh on myself - it’s been far from easy, and I wouldn’t want anyone to underestimate how sore and exhausted we both are.



The last rest day we had was back in Fort William, between the West Highland Way and the Great Glen Way. Liam did what any normal person would do on a rest day: he rested. Margaret Rose was kind enough to put us up there, and from her front room Ben Nevis was visible. To me, that seemed like a challenge, and so off I went up Britain’s tallest mountain. Retrospectively, it perhaps wasn’t my brightest idea yet, but the views made it absolutely worthwhile.

Our friend James did our final day along the GGW, to Inverness, and witnessed some of the new and exciting games I’d invented to keep Liam busy. The first, called ‘how many’, involves me asking Liam mathematically impossible questions, and falling about laughing at the faces he pulls, trying to work them out. A sample question might be:

“Liam…. Liam. LIAM!”
“what.”
“How many cows do you think there are in that field, as a fraction of a percentage compared to other fields?”
“…………..$*?!……..”

Another excellent game was born when I found a box of Weetabix on the ‘free shelf’ at a Youth Hostel in Invershin. The rules to this are simple: eat a dry Weetabix as quickly as possible whilst walking. I set the bar at 1min 11sec, but was eventually beaten by one second - I think the beard has given Liam special powers (although how gutted would you be to discover that you’re beard’s special powers amounted to being able to eat dry food quickly??)

See you all in a week or so!

Alex x

Camping, Midges, and Beautiful Settings

And so we trudge on. And on, and on, and on. We have now completed the West Highland Way, and (if we might say so ourselves!) in an excellent time of only 4 days. The most advantageous aspect of walking well-trudged paths is that, aside from it being signposted and fenced off from murderous cattle, we’ve been able to walk with other people. Seven and a half weeks is a long time to spend with one person, so it’s quite a change of pace for us to be able to interact with other human beings, and a relief to know that we’re still capable of doing so.

The first people we encountered were - from a distance - terrifying. Aged roughly between 10 and 15, armed with footballs and tracksuits - with no training ground in sight - we were expecting to be relieved of our phones, wallets, and dignities. However, the conversation went as follows:

“Hey mister!! You bin campin'?!”
“Yeah, on and off, all the way from Cornwall”
“Is that nae in England?!”
“Yes, it is! On the South coast”
“I’m not being nasty or anything, but I’m surprised you’re not Dead”.
“……….ok!”

We also walked large chunks of the WHW with an Art teacher named John who was a joy and whom we hope to see at our finishing party, and a mad-man called Andy, from Yorkshire. Andy had simply bought some camping gear, and set off for six weeks of mountain climbing and wild-camping in the Highlands, drinking water from streams, and eating very little. We were truly in awe.

I should also mention that, despite all the warnings and stories I’d be told, NOTHING could have prepared me mentally for the midges on the West Coast of Scotland. We first experienced them in Rowardennan, on the banks of the Loch Lomond, and they easily surpass the nightmarish stories that surround them. We’d walked over 22 miles that day, and had finally found a spot to set up camp. We put down our bags, surveyed our surroundings through bleary eyes, and then they came. They descended from the skies like a bloodthirsty cloud (NOT melodramatic, thank you), and set about demolishing us at a rate of knots. Whilst Liam popped on his easy-to-hand head-net, I scrabbled around in my bag like a lunatic trying to dig to Australia through the centre of my pack, turning the midge-filled air a very deep colour of blue, whilst seeing nothing but red, and beginning to wonder how on earth highlanders possibly put up with this for hundreds of years. Perhaps they were harder men than us……perhaps.

On the plus side, the scenery has been beyond words. The mountains and valleys make truly majestic surroundings for the final, and toughest, section of this mammoth effort, and if you stare hard enough at the peaks disappearing behind cloud it’s almost enough to stop the pain. Almost.

I am sadly unable to miss any of you now, since I have forgotten everything from my previous life!

Looking forward to meeting you all,

Alex x

The End Is In Sight (just over there, beyond those mountains, yeah?)

So perhaps it's a little premature to be hallucinating light at the end of the tunnel, induced no doubt by mother-nature's very best work today, but there really does seem to be a renewed sense of energy in knowing that we are ploughing towards the finish line, and that a large chunk of wandering is behind us. I will concede that we do indeed have an entire country to cross, and that it is booby-trapped with all sorts of nonsense, including mountains, loch's, storms and (as I've managed to keep a straight face for Liam), giant bears. Don't anybody let on - there's a lot of fun to be had here...

Many, many things have happened since I last spoke to you all. It goes without saying that we have met yet more fantastically generous people - some of whom only ask for their guitar to be tuned in return for dinners and beds, and others who are simply happy to receive our smelly underwear (to be washed, obviously - nothing odd or untoward. Although, if that's your thing, the proceeds would of course go to charity...weirdo).

So from halfway we have progressed into Scotland, and were understandably excited about crossing Hadrian's Wall. Well, I don't want to spoil it for you, but it's a total non-event. I won't be surprised to open the door in the morning only to be sliced in half by an angry Centurion, or perhaps a slightly mentally-dispossessed member of the national trust - and I did see it when it was lit up on the TV, which was far more exciting. Can’t they keep the torches up all the time?

My Mum and Sister (aww) were kind enough to drive up and visit us in Hawick (pronounced as if you’ve just swallowed a toy soldier and are trying to choke it out), and walked the remaining few miles of the Newcastleton to Hawick road (a 22 miler). The scenery is noticeably changing now, along with the weather: both appear to becoming far more dramatic.

Finally, it wouldn't be a blog entry without mention of our four-legged foe. Our fear took an unexpected turn when we were calmly told by a hotel owner that a local bull had decided to take a hiatus from being in a field, and had eloped into the surrounding woods with a cow. Our alert level was raised from amber to red when, upon a passing mention of it to a kindly farmer on our travels, she confessed that it was hers. "Oh good!", I thought. "Perhaps it's nearby. That'll be terrifying."

Please keep the messages coming, it’s great to hear from you. Also, we’re planning (slowly) a party for the second, or possibly third, weekend in September. Raise hands those who’d come!

Alex x

Half Way: An Achievement, or a Serial Killer in Disguise?

Well, there it is. Over 500 miles, over 600 arguments, 700 beers and 800 Cows, and we've made it. And so my mind begins to contemplate what lies ahead of us, and what we've left behind. Certainly behind me lies one of my water bottles, both of my pedometers, flat walking, Freda's cooking, Wolverhampton, Praa Sands (including the beach, the surf, and the sun), and some of my clothes. In front of me lies the Highlands, the Loch Ness Monster, more heavily armed cows, Rain, Rain, Storms, Rain, Rain, and deep fried batter. Turning back is beginning to look attractive...



But, as Liam would say, '....well....it'll probably be alright...if you like....'. This evening I am writing to you from Settle, in Yorkshire, and those of you know that know Liam and I will know this village is an old friend - and so far we're being treated as such. Kindly, Ian Brooke (aka a nice man in the pub) has sorted us somewhere to stay tonight, and we're chuffed to have been bought drinks and directed to Settle's phenomenal curry house. This week has included some of the sternest hills we've encountered, a 26 mile Pennine Way endurance, and - frankly - not enough pubs, so we're very glad to see some familiar streets.



We must quickly mention, too, that Linda Walker and her husband came and kindly bought us dinner on Tuesday, and that today we're on the charity's homepage. Have a peek at our sun burnt mugs, and take that opportunity to be in awe of all the work that is being done to help the children of Belarus.



Missing you less and less now,



Alex!

Severe Weather Warnings

S**t! The Met Office website today does not make for good reading. Heavy Rain. In fact, they've skipped from pleasant Green (no severe weather) straight through to Dark Orange (be prepared), missing out the slightly less ominous, and more useful, Be Aware. Well, we are aware now. I am also critically aware that I've lost my waterproof jacket, so today is looking like it might become known as Wet Thursday.

A lot has happened since I last wrote on here. We've now finished out journey along the River Severn, which was a genuinely lovely place to walk. Worcester is beautiful - we were lucky enough to have our walk straight past the Cathedral - and headed up to Stourport. Our accommodation in Stourport was the Mayor and his wife's house, who kindly took us out for dinner. I'm afraid to say, however, that we were probably not the best of company, having completed a 45-mile stint in 2 days.

I have invented some new exciting games, too, although I think Liam is less sold on them. The first one is called 'Puddles', which involves me jumping as hard as possible into puddles, as close as possible to Liam. He, in return, has invented a game called 'Punch', as a counter-measure. We're getting along beautifully!

We were very kindly put up in Wolverhampton by family friends, who not only put up with our smell and snoring, but also fed us up and - most important of all - took us out on Friday night to see the Bright Lights! I can't imagine what people will have thought of Liam and I throwing shapes on the dancefloor in walking boots, tracksuit bottoms, and almost matching t-shirts. George kindly suggested that people probably thought we were on a theme night - I'd hate to know the title of that theme...

Injury-wise, things seem to be hardening up. My left knee has a slight twinge, and (after a pretty sharp curry) I also had to walk 21 miles with bowed legs. Blisters, for the moment, seem to be a thing of the past - however I was slightly concerned yesterday to discover that the bottoms of my feet now appear to be made of wood. Liam's calf injury is a distant memory, and by tomorrow we hope to be in Derbyshire, where the serious hill walking begins. That is, of course, all dependant on whether or not we drown today....or tonight....in our tent.

Our list of people that must thank for their kindness is growing rapidly, and we will thank you all properly in due course. Liam sends his love; his beard is beginning to look magnificent. His hat, however, is ridiculous, and stinks. It's almost ruining the walk for me. He has just reminded me, however, that it keeps his head dry - along with his waterproof jacket. HUMPH.

Missing you all, and - as always - we'd love to hear from you!
walkonethousand@gmail.com

Alex x

Cows

EDIT: we will be on Stroud FM (stroudfm.co.uk) at 12 tomorrow.


'Harmless' and 'friendly' are two words we've heard being used to describe our beefy buddies in the last week or so, and I would like to dispel the myth: Cows are mean, psychotic, plotting, country-side guerillas who take great pride and pleasure in watching exhausted, sun-burnt walkers panic.

Their fun begins as the intrepid adventurers approach the entrance to the field. It seems that they design field entrances to test a walker's fitness and agility, by placing a massive variety of climbing apparatus that would be more at place on an SAS assault course (in place of gates), in amongst the tallest stinging nettles on the perimeter. Their tactic is first to lure the walkers into the field, and so pretend to ignore them as they clamber over the style. Then, as they aim for the far-side gate, a Sentry Cow makes eye-contact. It's a special type of eye contact. Many of the other Privates appear to sit about uninterested in the walker's presence, but they are. Sentry Cow then makes his move, and the battle is on.

His first tactic involves a lazy climb to his feet, whilst maintaining the dreaded eye-contact, and a slow amble towards the enemy. Privates then begin to look over, and the cold sweat begins to build on the small of the walkers' backs. All the cows are now looking, and shaky murmurs of "don't worry, Liam, they won't do anything" amuse the Cow Army greatly. They all rise to their feet, and follow their Sentry. The mooy laughs are almost audible, as one or two pick up the pace and the colour fades from the walkers' faces. A couple of specially trained 'terror-inducers' then begin to run, and include a couple of their Special Moves - the Brown-Pant-Jig - whereby the Cow, who (probably) weighs a tonne, jumps (again, probably) thirty feet into the air in order to increase the panic, and messy pants.

The walkers, now at a sprint, jump at the nearest fence. Not over it, you'll notice, but at it. This pleases the Cow Army, and - assuming one of the walkers yelp or get tangled/shocked on the fence, their mission has been achieved. They celebrate by gathering around the bruised and embarrassed trekkers' escape point for a good look, making sure that - despite the fact you've got away (and avoided certain death) - you get the message that cows are in charge, and that farming them may well have been a massive mistake for mankind. Vegetarianism is the way forward, if you wish to survive the Beef Revolution of 2023. See p21 of todays's Daily Mail - 'Cows kill man, 47, in stampede horror'. Heed me.

Other than cows, we've had a brilliant week. We've reached 250 miles, and Gloucester, and I'm writing to you from Painswick. We should easily arrive in Upton in time for the Blues Festival this weekend, and welcome visitors. We've had the most amazing reception, including Ada (I've never been so full in my life), Helen in Glasto, Patrick, Cathy, and the Grimsteads in Bath (that's not a band) and now Arthur and Andi in Painswick. We're also making an appearance on Painswick Radio tomorrow at 9.30, to chat about our cause.

Retrospectively, we have so many places to thank, and will do in due course.

Thanks for keeping up to date!

Alex

P.S. We really loved your little emails of encouragement - so feel free to get in touch: walkonethousand@gmail.com